


Life Beyond the Minimum Safe Distance

by canistakahari



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Blindfolds, Dirty Talk, Double Penetration, M/M, Plot What Plot, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:42:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy finds himself stuck between two very compelling men. This is not really a terrible thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life Beyond the Minimum Safe Distance

“Just so you both know,” says McCoy, his voice hitching as Jim spreads his fingers inside him, “this is  _not_  what I meant when I said we should all spend more time together.”  
  
“Don’t listen to him. This is  _exactly_  what he meant,” corrects Jim, splaying his other hand over McCoy’s sternum and tugging him inexorably back against the clean lines of Jim’s body. “We should all spend more time together  _having sex_. We should all spend more time  _inside_  each other.”  
  
He pinches a nipple— _cocksucker!_ —and McCoy grunts. “Personally, Jim, I was referring to the time-honoured practice of having dinner, then maybe moving on to a few drinks—”  
  
“We had dinner,” adds Pike, from where he’s seated like a dignitary in the hotel room’s only armchair, a tumbler of whiskey dangling from his fingers and one leg crossed over the other.   
  
“And Chris is having a drink,” murmurs Jim soothingly, brushing his lips over McCoy’s jaw.   
  
“Wasn’t expecting to put on a show,” grumbles McCoy. “You just gonna sit and watch?”  
  
Pike’s eyes are a wholly different shade of blue than Jim’s but are no less arresting. Their gazes meet and lock and Pike carefully sets down his glass, getting to his feet as Jim nudges a thigh between McCoy’s legs. Jim is doing exceptionally distracting things behind him with his mouth and hands, but McCoy finds himself completely unable to take his eyes off Pike as the man slowly tugs the knot of his blue silk tie free, then unbuttons his dress shirt with long fingers. The once-over Pike gives him is bold and obvious, gaze drifting down to take in McCoy’s flushed chest and growing erection, the corner of his mouth quirking at the sight of Jim’s arm slung possessively around his waist. Pike finishes removing his tie with a bit of a flourish, the soft fabric pooling as he steps forward, an end held in each hand.  
  
“Hey,” protests McCoy as Pike stretches it out, looping it over McCoy’s eyes and tying it snugly at the back of his head. “This is hardly fair—”  
  
“Don’t see much argument down here,” Pike says dryly, wrapping a calloused hand around McCoy’s dick. Instead of the teasing stroke McCoy is expecting, he gets an infinitely more appreciated rough tug and half-twist that drives an embarrassing squeak out of his mouth. He’s got little to no control over the way his hips buck excitedly forward. Jim’s hand follows the movement, sinking his fingers deeper, until McCoy is groaning helplessly, caught between two equally-tempting sensations.   
  
“Who’s gonna fuck me, then?” demands McCoy, biting his lip as need swirls up thick and demanding inside him. Someone better be fucking him at some point in the next few minutes or he’s going to start getting cranky.   
  
He can tell they’re exchanging a glance by the way there’s a sudden lull in sound and movement, by the way his skin prickles; he imagines two pairs of blue eyes meeting, mischievous and dangerous.   
  
“Well?” he demands. Jim uses his thighs to part McCoy’s legs wider, propping him up as he adds a fourth slick finger, twisting his wrist and wrenching a gasp out of him. He clenches instinctively, groaning at the pressure, and continues raggedly, “Dammit, Jim, I’m ready—”  
  
Pike’s fingers shut him up, pushing heady and abrupt between his lips, silencing him neatly. He  _mmphs_  irritably as Pike inches closer on the bed, the warm press of his body suddenly right there as McCoy settles with a small sound and sucks sullenly on his fingers, grunting as Jim works him open against the burn and tug of more width than he’s accustomed.   
  
That’s Jim’s hand on his hip, and Pike’s brushing through his hair, adjusting the make-shift blindfold, and McCoy is suddenly overwhelmed by the scent of them, the proximity of their bodies, Jim familiar in a way that itches under his skin, while Pike is a rarer comfort, easy-going and memorable.   
  
“Should we tell him?” asks Pike, removing his fingers from McCoy’s mouth. He can feel the strand of saliva that goes with them and licks at his lips in embarrassment.   
  
“Tell me what?” asks McCoy uncertainly.   
  
Pike’s slick fingers prod at the stretched skin of his asshole and McCoy stifles a ragged little moan.   
  
Jim presses up all along his back from behind, skin radiating heat, and tugs McCoy’s earlobe between his teeth. “Tell you that we’d  _both_  like to fuck you.”  
  
McCoy huffs noisily, something an awful lot like wary suspicion creeping down his spine. He’s hard-pressed to figure out what the hell they’re both playing at with the bizarre implication that this is a strange request. Usually they  _do_  both fuck him when these clandestine meetings occur; sometimes Pike fucks him while he fucks Jim, sometimes Jim gets handsy and possessive and pins McCoy flat to the mattress and makes Pike watch as he peppers his shoulders and spine with bruises and bite-marks and persists in very pointedly doing everything  _but_  fucking him. Point being, McCoy’s usually crammed between them in some way or another, and he can’t find the part of Jim’s statement that’s meant to be objectionable or unique. To be frank, he’s just desperate for them to get to the actual fucking; wants this so much he’s resorted to listing the symptoms of Tellarite flu in his head in order to tamp down on the raging arousal threatening to swallow him whole already.   
  
“Okay,” amends McCoy. “Then who’s fucking me first?”  
  
Again that prickly feeling.   
  
They’re exchanging glances. Glances of  _meaning_. Which implies they’re privy to something McCoy is not. Christ. How is this his life? When did this happen? Not only has he got Jim, with his big blue eyes and his maddening ability to talk McCoy into absolutely anything, but he’s also got Pike, casually confident and effortlessly charismatic. Rather unsurprisingly, they’re both as frustrating as they are attractive.   
  
McCoy ultimately blames Jim for this. He blames Jim for a lot of things—many of which are, admittedly, not even Jim’s fault, but it’s a handy excuse, and Jim blames McCoy right back in an exponential blame-train of truly epic magnitude.   
  
Maybe it’s more like a blame circle-jerk.   
  
Five fingers press into his ass.  
  
McCoy yelps, bucking up, scrabbling for some grip on something, and ends up wrapping his hands around— _some_  part of Pike’s anatomy. Likely arms? No, those are ribs—Pike muffles a startled huff of laughter—and that’s a hip. McCoy readjusts his grip, gritting his teeth and trying to convey with silent but potent disdain just how unimpressed he is with all this secrecy.   
  
“Am I not actually invited to the tea party?” he demands, trying to ignore the combined efforts of Jim and Pike’s fingers questing unerringly into his ass. He makes an embarrassing noise and gives up. “You can tell me, I’ll try not to cry.”  
  
“He’d totally cry,” says Jim. McCoy startles a little; Jim’s mouth is still  _right there_  by his ear. “Invisible, miserable tears.”  
  
“Now would be the time to tell me if you’re planning on doing something dangerous and/or unhygienic.”  
  
There’s a deep, telling silence.  
  
“Whatever it is, no,” McCoy says hurriedly. He tightens his fingers on Pike, well aware he’s probably leaving marks. Well, Pike can just fucking well deal with them. He’s kneeling on trembling legs, with five fingers up his ass, filling him except not, with a tie wrapped around his face—this could easily translate back to several unmentionable awkward events in his med school days that McCoy is desperate to avoid dwelling on.   
  
“Leonard,” says Pike, in that reassuring  _don’t worry, I’ve got this_  voice of his. Goddammit. The man is already persuading him and McCoy has no idea  _what_  he’s being convinced of. “Rewind a few minutes.”  
  
McCoy does. “You said you’re both fucking me.”  
  
There’s a patient pause, both of them apparently waiting for McCoy to figure something out. And then a less patient pause, as Jim gets bored and strokes his prostrate, making McCoy choke out a moan and jerk.   
  
“Jim,” chides Pike. “Don’t be a brat.”  
  
McCoy snorts, then the realization hits him like a smack in the face and he flushes hot from head to toe, his cock twitching. “Why didn’t you just  _say_  so?” he demands. “Is this a captain thing? Is this what you learn in Interstellar Diplomacy? If you just keep talking in circles without actually mentioning what it is you should be discussing, eventually you’ll annoy your target into giving in? All you had to say was ‘we’d both like to fuck you  _at the same time_.’ Don’t be so damn dense!”  
  
They’re quiet for a moment, and McCoy is dizzy with possibility, fear, wondering if he’s stepped out of the bounds of the tenuous rules they’ve established, mouthed off a bit too much. He’s actually on the verge of apologizing when all the fingers disappear and he mewls, utterly bereft, before he’s  _passed between them_ , heaved forward into Pike’s lap, stumbling slightly as he realizes Pike’s rearranging himself against the headboard, sitting up with his legs spread out. Jim leads him forward, McCoy shivering as he straddles Pike’s thighs.   
  
“You’re going to sit on Christopher’s cock, Bones,” says Jim, his hands sliding over McCoy’s hips, guiding, manipulating.   
  
“ _Christopher_?” echoes McCoy. He’s going for a suitably scornful voice, but the disproportionate amounts of arousal and testosterone in the room are having a deleterious effect on his communication skills. He falls pitifully short of his desired tone, awkwardly hitting on vaguely dazed and muddy instead. He leans forward, Pike gently grasping his wrists and patiently settling McCoy’s hands on his shoulders. The resulting laughter at McCoy’s blind fumblings rumbles straight from Pike’s chest into McCoy’s.   
  
“I think we’re at the stage where we can use first names in the bedroom, Bones,” says Jim.   
  
“Too bad that doesn’t include getting you to drop that nickname,” mutters McCoy irritably. He doesn’t really want Jim to drop it. That would actually make him incredibly sad.   
  
Christ, his brain is gone and they’re not even having sex yet.   
  
He can feel Jim settle between Pike’s legs, warm and solid behind McCoy, his hands spreading McCoy open again, vulnerable and ready. Then Pike’s cock nudges at his well-lubed hole and McCoy doesn’t even wait, just squeezes Pike’s shoulders and sinks down onto his erection on the exhale, the sweet thrust of smooth flesh forcing a thick moan from him.   
  
“Jesus, McCoy,” gasps Pike, his thighs tensing. “Eager boy.”  
  
McCoy opens his mouth to complain but nothing comes out. He blinks behind the blindfold, still can’t see a damn thing but the stars in his eyes, and seats himself more fully, Pike grunting in surprise.   
  
“Bones,” says Jim, his lips pressing softly to the back of McCoy’s neck. His hands stroke McCoy’s hips, steadying. “Slow down. It’s not a race.”  
  
McCoy harrumphs. He’s not  _rushing_. He just—needs more. Needs more of this, the burn and the stretch, the pressure on his prostate, hot flesh and slick skin, spreading him wide open, overwhelming fullness and tantalizing width.   
  
“If this was a race,” growls McCoy, “then you’d both be tying for last place, the way you’re drawing this out. For a couple of lunatic adrenaline-jockey captains, you’re leaving a lot to be desired.”  
  
“Hey,” says Pike, nudging his hips up in a slow, pointed roll, painting red speckles of light along the insides of McCoy’s eyelids at the slow slide of cock against prostate. “I’m an admiral now, thank you very much.”  
  
“That’s an important distinction to be making right at this second, clearly,” grumbles McCoy, “Glad to see we’ve all got our priorities straight.”  
  
“I can’t imagine how you always score so low in diplomacy on your performance reviews,” says Pike smartly.   
  
“You have no idea how often I have to step on his foot during meetings,” Jim says. “Watching his face is like a study in shades of red. There’s an office pool.”  
  
“And you have no idea how often Jim gets punched in the face,” snaps McCoy. “There should be an entire section for that on those damn evaluations. Then Jim could  _fail it_.”   
  
“He’s far too coherent,” muses Pike to Jim.   
  
“Well, you’ve got your dick in him. Do something about it.”  
  
“I hope you both die in a fi—”   
  
There’s an explosion of motion from Pike’s previously stationary hips. It’s so sharp and sudden that it jars McCoy’s teeth, rocking him up and sending him scrabbling for Pike. He squeezes his knees together to regain his balance, sitting back down hard on Pike’s cock, groaning helplessly at the renewed burst of scattered pleasure railroading with abandon through his brain.   
  
Pike gives him no time to recover, shifting the angle of his body to give himself enough leverage to begin the single-minded task of fucking into him with steady, leisurely rolls of his hips, bouncing McCoy gently on his cock with little to no chance of actually gaining either of them enough friction to come.   
  
“What was that?” asks Pike wryly.  
  
“Unngh,” groans McCoy.   
  
“Thought so.”  
  
Pike slows, and McCoy makes a noise helpfully designed to indicate supreme displeasure with this turn of events, but a moment later, Jim’s familiar fingers, slick with lube, are pressing at the obscene stretch of his ass around Pike’s cock. A flash of uncertainty, as quick and debilitating as a shock of electricity, crackles through his body and he tenses, clenching tight.  
  
“Oh lord,” groans Pike, abruptly losing every ounce of captain-ly—admiral-ly?—restraint he might have possessed prior to McCoy engaging a vice grip on his cock and bucking hard into the tight clutch of McCoy’s ass. Somewhat disappointingly, he quickly regains control of his manly urges. “Leonard—relax. Jim, he’s—”  
  
“I know,” says Jim. Of course Jim knows. Jim pulled his hand back as soon as McCoy suffered his temporary lapse in sanity. “Bones, relax. Can you take this? Can you do this for me? I’m going to go one finger at a time.”  
  
It’s the concerned, gentle question that does it. Damn him. McCoy exhales, his shoulders slumping, and nods shakily.   
  
The first finger isn’t too bad in the way that an extra bite of dinner when you’re already about a fraction of a second away from spontaneously combusting isn’t too bad. McCoy is already full, but Jim is insisting on stuffing him a little more, and that stretch is only going to increase. He has trouble extrapolating the end result; it can only lead to pain and misery, and yet, increased arousal thrums through him in a burst of endorphins and adrenaline McCoy never thought a person like him could endure. He’s not the risk-taking thrill-junkie in this situation, but his body seems to think he is, responding to the new challenge set by Jim with hearty and completely uncalled-for enthusiasm—his cock swells, throbbing with brainless excitement, as he flushes warmly and squirms.   
  
“That’s it,” murmurs Jim, working methodically in that single-minded way McCoy remembers from demented Academy all-nighters, only adding a second finger after ten torturously thorough minutes when McCoy has apparently relaxed to whatever magical standard of ass-fucking Jim has invented but inevitably refrained from sharing with the class. Pike is just as surprised as McCoy at the new intrusion, grunting indelicately when, presumably, his cock is subject to enticing new stimulation.   
  
“This is going to take ten years,” says McCoy in a strained breath, abruptly finding talking way too difficult a task than usual.   
  
That’s kind of new for him.   
  
McCoy is very, very adept at the physical act of speaking; words have this habit of building up like a reservoir behind a dam and then tumbling out without much go-ahead from McCoy himself. He can’t promise they generally have a lot of substance—Jim claims he talks because he’s got some genetically ingrained need to continually destroy whatever fragile state of calm might infringe on his Radius of Crankitude—but what he lacks in overall quality he makes up in  _overwhelming quantity_.   
  
This has the unfortunate and/or gratifying side effect of making large swaths of people tune out when he really gets going on a rage-fuelled tirade.   
  
McCoy  _dis_ likes this because sometimes he does require his crewmates take him seriously and  _likes_  it because people tend to leave him well enough alone. Most folks have sussed him out, however, and realize he spends large portions of his day deliberately having everyone on, and, even more tragically, have come to the conclusion that he’s  _not_  actually a terrifying bastards that eats kittens for breakfast and is, actually, the extreme polar opposite of advocating for the consumption of adorable animals aka a poorly-hidden marshmallow in disguise. Despite the daily bouts of acerbic word vomit, he still gets at least three officers a day side-eyeing him in the corridor and then inevitably materializing later in his office in tender, tentative, wide-eyed hope of gleaning Important Life Advice.   
  
“ _Bones_ ,” says Jim.  
  
“What?” snaps McCoy.  
  
Jim chuckles gently, which gives McCoy the impression that this is probably not the first time Jim’s said his name. Dammit. Then Jim’s hand comes up to cup McCoy’s face, tilting his head to facilitate the angle and vectors required for their lips to meet, and kisses the thoughts right out of his head.   
  
“Jim,” he murmurs softly, melting shamelessly, the tension seeping out of him at the barest touch of Jim’s warm skin. He is so  _easy_.   
  
“You were thinking too loud,” says Jim, his smile crooked against McCoy’s mouth. McCoy returns it, kissing the corner of Jim’s plush lips.   
  
“He’s got that furrow between his eyebrows,” says Pike sternly. “That’s no good.”  
  
McCoy is still having trouble forming multisyllabic words.   
  
He tries to steal another kiss but Jim’s hands push him forward, into Pike’s waiting arms, which come up to wrap him in a snug embrace. Pike presses kisses to McCoy’s hair and McCoy sighs softly as Jim’s fingers coax him open more and more, bringing him to the very precipice of discomfort without backhanding him over the edge—it’s the perfect level of pleasure-pain, his own dick hard and wanting for touch. He doesn’t even realize he’s rutting into Pike’s stomach until he comes, spilling hot and sticky between them.   
  
“Let’s see how many more times he can do that,” challenges Pike, one big hand palming McCoy’s head and stroking his hair.   
  
“Assholes,” wheezes McCoy, lost in a thick fog of dizzying sensation, sound and touch and taste and smell pressing in on him, over-sensitizing every movement. Orgasm makes him loopy, loose-limbed and floppy, and, embarrassingly, over-affectionate; Pike endures McCoy shoving his face into the crook of his neck and nuzzling blindly, absently patting his ass. Then Jim presses in finger number four and McCoy arches, unsuccessfully stifling the squeaky whimper that escapes past the sandpaper-dry wasteland of his throat.   
  
“Imagine if your staff could see you now,” rumbles Pike. His hips are rolling again, in spare, precise movements, sparking flashes of arousal against McCoy’s over-exerted prostate, keeping him squirming, as Jim holds him open and then scoots right up until his hips are flush with McCoy’s ass and he can feel the blunt nudge of his cock.   
  
McCoy gasps and involuntarily pushes back, face heating, eyes wide behind the blindfold.   
  
“See their CMO pinned between his superior officers, propped wide open, getting what must be a sorely-deserved reaming. I bet nobody knows their smart-mouthed, sassy doctor could ever look like  _this_. Wish you could see yourself, Leonard. Stretched around my cock and Jim’s fingers, just waiting for  _more_. Taking as much as you can.”  
  
The eager whine that forces its way out of his mouth is complete sabotage. McCoy was not capable of this kind of sexual soundtrack prior to bedding down with these yahoos, this is— _character assassination_ , is what it is.   
  
“He’s a greedy little bitch,” remarks Jim cheerfully, and there’s a scuffle of movement and a rearrangement of limbs and  _oh_ , fuck, then he’s finally sinking into McCoy and it’s—  
  
McCoy doesn’t know  _what_  it is because he’s pretty sure he whites out for some undefined period of time as all the blood in his body simultaneously jumps his cock from behind and beats it over the head.   
  
Everything in him has ceased to be, his mind bursting into stardust and a void of empty space before narrowing down to the branding heat and pressure of Pike and Jim inside him, the slick, aching thrust of hot flesh.   
  
“Bones, breathe,” says Jim, his lips brushing the back of McCoy’s neck. Jim is spread behind him like a reassuring blanket, his warm hands settled on his hips, and both Pike and Jim have gone utterly still, buried in him while McCoy rasps out ragged breaths and adjusts to this unexpected intimacy, the combined slide of their cocks within him, the achingly deep fullness.   
  
He swallows, head swimming, and groans. He knows that if either of them move he’s going to come again, which he didn’t think was actually feasible so soon. He’s never managed to break his personal record of more than a grand total of three orgasms in twelve hours, and he’s about to come twice in less than twenty minutes. No doubt Jim will be smug and Pike will be wry and it’s probably a good thing McCoy can’t see either of them in case he gets any funny ideas about smacking the nearest one of them in the face.   
  
The stimulation is hard-edged and bright, undeniable and as difficult to ignore as oncoming traffic.   
  
“Fuck. Me,” he grits out, digging his fingers into Pike’s upper arms as Jim folds over his back to brace his knees. “I swear to Christ,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “If you don’t start doing something in the next ten seconds I will make you both regret it in all manner of creative and painful ways. You wanted to fuck me, so  _fuck me_. Do you need a written invitation? Should I get out the flags and break into semaphore?”  
  
“Man’s got a very verbose point,” says Pike tightly, with far more self-control than McCoy would ever think possible considering just how long he’s been stuck trying  _not_  to fuck McCoy as Jim got his shit together. Then Jim shifts his hips forward and McCoy and Pike both moan.   
  
It’s disturbing on a deep and personal level how that when Pike decides to try a few shallow rolls of his hips Jim immediately settles into the appropriate counter-rhythm, a tide of tugging flesh, pushing and pulling as Jim’s hips meet McCoy’s ass just as Pike pulls back, the two of them moving together like the chug of gears in an old-fashioned locomotive, steady and sure.   
  
As much as they’d probably like this to last, it devolves into something far less ordered with startling alacrity, Pike reaching his limit before Jim and then clearly straining against just breaking their tempo and recklessly fucking into McCoy. But out of some stringent ideals regarding sexual courtesy, McCoy thinks with half-crazed delight, Pike waits for Jim to catch up instead of indulging himself.  
  
McCoy comes all over himself for a second time before Jim’s even halfway there, his hips stuttering into Pike’s stomach as he wails softly and goes desperately limp.   
  
There’s a visceral thrill to the way they  _keep fucking him_  through it, Pike’s arms wrapped around him, holding him still, as every thrust works increasingly more incoherent noises out of McCoy, robbing him of speech, until he couldn’t possibly hope to ever form words again.   
  
“Jim,” rasps Pike in a warning tone, his hips shuddering. His composure crumbles and he comes, bucking sharply, and then Jim is clutching at them both as he smothers a groan against McCoy’s shoulder and stiffens as he spills his own climax into McCoy, a rush of sticky-wet heat that brings the blush right back to McCoy’s cheeks.   
  
He kind of wants to ask if they can stay like this, folded into each other, Pike and Jim inside him, warm and fulfilling, but Jim is already working on disentangling their bodies as carefully as possible. McCoy still sobs when Jim slips out with a wet sound, then guides Pike out as well, navigating gently around the dead weight of McCoy collapsed against Pike’s chest, his face mashed into his collarbone.   
  
“Look at that,” says Jim in that rough, scraped-raw voice he gets after sex. The pad of his finger traces through the warm come welling out of McCoy’s swollen red hole and he mewls helplessly, distantly aware that he just widened his legs for Jim to grope more easily between his thighs. “Stretched out and leaking come. Jesus.” McCoy shudders.  
  
Pike’s hand settles in McCoy’s hair again, stroking gently. “Leonard?”  
  
“I’m fine,” whispers McCoy unsteadily, exhaling. “Don’t know if y’all noticed the gratuitous fucking that just when on, but  _I_  sure as hell did. Gimme a moment for my brain to come back online.”  
  
“Your mouth already has,” remarks Jim cheerfully, and McCoy senses fumbling behind him before a warm, damp cloth descends between his legs to carefully clean away the mess. He’s touched by the care in the action as well as vaguely disappointed Jim doesn’t plan on leaving him streaked in come, filthy and marked.   
  
He drifts, pleasantly heavy-limbed and just the right level of sore, allowing Jim and Pike to fuss over him as they wipe at his skin and rearrange him more comfortably on the mattress, a process which involves both of them working together to heft him off Pike and letting him sprawl heavily on a dry section of sheets instead. Light fingers remove the blindfold but McCoy keeps his eyes closed anyway, just floating.   
  
“Bones,” says Jim’s voice by his ear. “Drink this.”  
  
McCoy doesn’t particularly want to move, but he knows that if he refuses, he will be in for a absolute trial the next time he wants Jim to do something like update his boosters or refrain from drowning his coffee in sugar or eat something leafy and green. He compromises with himself by opening his eyes to slits, allowing Pike to prop him up against his chest, and opening his mouth to catch the straw of the electrolyte drink pouch Jim is pushing between his teeth.   
  
“You boys ruin me for anyone else,” Pike murmurs, later, when McCoy is rehydrated and sandwiched between them, Jim plastered to his body like a piece of flypaper, Pike with a heavy arm draped over McCoy’s waist.   
  
“Don’t get any ideas about this being a regular occurrence,” mutters McCoy. “I’ve got no desire to forever forfeit the ability to sit on my ass.”  
  
“You are full of lies,” says Jim. “You are constructed with falsehoods. Everyone knows you’re just a slut for cock, Bones.”  
  
“Conducted a poll, did you?” demands McCoy. He realizes he’s still got his eyes closed and immediately remedies this, squinting into the dim light and meeting Pike’s cool blue eyes. Jim’s lips touch the slope of his jaw in a barely-there kiss. “Well?”  
  
“I think he did, Leonard,” replies Pike, a slow smile on his face, dimpled and wry. “Luckily the only person he thought to survey was himself and he got exactly the result he was expecting.”  
  
“Hey, that makes it 100% participation,” protests Jim. “Can’t beat that.”  
  
“I’ll beat  _you_ ,” threatens McCoy.   
  
“—off,” supplies Jim helpfully.   
  
“Thanks for that,” says McCoy. “That was deeply necessary.”  
  
“You should see his reports,” Pike contributes thoughtfully. “He makes notes in the margins. Sometimes he draws little pictures.”  
  
“I’m going to pass out now,” McCoy informs them.  
  
He doesn’t, not right away.   
  
He  _does_  close his eyes and give off every vibe he possibly can to indicate he is sleeping now, honest, and lets himself sink into the cozy warmth of a body on either side of him, the rhythmic brush of Pike’s thumb over McCoy’s pulse as he holds his wrist loosely, the puff of Jim’s breath against his ear. They talk quietly over his head, the content of the discussion lost on McCoy, but it’s comfortable and familiar, and McCoy admits to himself that they really  _do_  need more encounters like this, charged and urgent and affirming, if only to achieve the easy calm that follows.   
  
Fuck if he’s divulging that to Jim, though.


End file.
